


Sweet Like Sugar

by GoodJanet



Category: Late Night Host RPF
Genre: Drinking, Fluff, Hero Worship, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodJanet/pseuds/GoodJanet
Summary: John would still swear that the most intoxicating part of the evening was getting Jon to laugh and basking in the gentle touches to his shoulder, arm, and hands.





	

Because of course Jon Stewart is at the—not “his,” he’s not claiming this whole extravaganza for himself; just because he’s a British man with a golden statue in his hands does _not_ mean he thinks he deserves this by any stretch of the imagination—Emmy after party.

“What are you doing here, Stewart?” he exclaims.

His voice cracks like he’s finally hit puberty, and he inwardly cringes. This whole night is just so damn ridiculous, and, okay, yes, pretty fucking amazing.

“Surprise!” Jon says, rushing up to greet him. John opens his arms to embrace him tightly. “I’m glad no one told you.”

They pull away, but John still kind of stunned from, well, everything.

“Don’t think for one moment that I’m not grateful, but what are you doing here? I mean, you couldn’t possibly think that _I_ was going to—”

“Hey!” Jon interrupts. “What kind of talk is that?” Jon steers them over to a dark, secluded corner of the huge party. Most people were still busy dancing. Jon sits. John sits. He’d follow Jon’s lead to the ends of the earth. “Now do you think I’d be here if I didn’t think one of my own wasn’t going home with that golden idol?”

“Jon, now I know your people are familiar with golden idols—” Jon giggles. “—but let’s face it: this thing has no business being in my possession! We’re only on once a week at best.”

Jon leans forward, puts a warm hand on John’s knee in comfortable familiarity. 

“Do you think I’d make a secret trip to the Emmys if I didn’t think your name was inside that envelope?”

Well, fuck. No. He actually hadn’t considered that possibility. The only thing he had considered was having his face on screen for five seconds, clapping for whoever won. Which would then be followed by getting rip roaring drunk with his entire staff at Steve Carell’s “losers only” after party. He’s only a little disappointed that he’s only reached the “rip” level of “rip roaring” drunk. And that’s probably why Jon’s sincerity is making him feel like there’s something in his eyes that he has to wipe away. He knows that if he doesn’t crack a joke in the next five seconds, he’s going to start welling up like some kind of non-English person.

“I see. Your twenty-two Emmys at home were feeling lonely and were looking for a twenty-third to bring home with you.”

Jon giggles, and John feels like he just had ten years added on to his life. He watches him half cover his mouth with his hand, all the while bubbling over like a wellspring of pure happiness. John could listen to that glorious sound for hours.

He’s grinning when he says, “Well, it wasn’t _that_ funny.”

“No, it’s just—I’m laughing at everything! I’ve got you and Stephen and Larry and Sam. I couldn’t be prouder of the Best Fucking News Team than if you were all my own kids. You’ve just all come such a long way, and I’m glad I was here to witness it.”

“Should we all start calling you step-dad Stewart, or are you comfortable with being progressive and letting us keep calling you Jon?”

“Actually I prefer ‘sir’ or ‘captain.’ You know, I’m very Von Trapp like that.”

John snorts. God, slipping back into this was so easy. He loves his writers and producers and his whole damn team, really, but there was sometimes still that Jon shaped hole missing in his life. That’s when he decides they need a drink, and when Jon agrees, he flags down a stunningly gorgeous waitress. Was _everyone_ in Hollywood stunningly gorgeous despite their profession?

“What’ll you have?” she asks, flashing perfect teeth.

“Whiskey?” he asks Jon. Jon nods, and he turns back to her. “Two whiskeys. Neat.”

“Coming right up. And congrats!” she says nodding towards the trophy.

She turns around and walks away like the dance floor was a catwalk.

“I miss New York,” John says when she disappears into the crowd. “The people there look like people, and I don’t feel as inadequate.”

“That’s why I stopped making movies, actually,” Jon deadpans.

“ _Please_ ,” John says with a huge eye roll.

It sets Jon to giggling again, and even with their second and third whiskeys drunk, John would still swear that the most intoxicating part of the evening was getting Jon to laugh and basking in the gentle touches to his shoulder, arm, and hands.

It’s quiet between the two of them again. A cozy, comfortable quiet. They watch the crowd sing and dance and make noise and take endless selfies with all the other beautiful people crammed into the ballroom. He’s pretty sure he can hear his staff mixed in with everyone else shouting about how this is the best party they’ve ever been to, although that could just be his imagination. It isn’t a stretch to say he’s projecting. It’s an amazing night, and sitting here, soaking it all in with Jon Stewart isn’t a bad way to enjoy it. There would be plenty of time to hobnob later.

That’s when he feels the hand on his thigh. John turns his head and sees that Jon’s been looking at him while he was lost in his reverie.

“I know you don't wanna hear this, but I miss you, Oliver. I miss talking to you—all of you—who went on to do bigger and better things. I miss the show, but seeing you succeed is enough for me.” Jon lets that linger before continuing, “You didn’t have to thank me, you know.”

“Of fucking course I did. You know I’d do anything for you.”

Jon ducks his head, as if embarrassed about what he was about to say next.

“You know, even though the show won a lot, the feeling never got old. Holding that trophy and standing up there with everyone and talking to everyone at the after party always got me keyed up. I had all this energy to expel.”

John’s eyes widen slightly.

“Are you suggesting that you got lucky with staff members for sixteen years, and I was _not_ one of them? Now what kind of boss leaves arguably one of the sexiest men at that office off of his fuck list? Was it my beak nose or my weak eyesight? Or perhaps it was my pasty skin that ruined my chances?”

Jon snorts.

“You know, the whole British repression thing. I didn’t think you’d be into it.”

John points over his shoulder with the golden trophy, and says with mock sincerity, “I will blow you in the men’s room just because you think I won’t. I am _not_ going to wait another sixteen years for my shot with Jon Stewart.”

He picks up his whiskey and takes several gulps. He grimaces and reels a bit as it hits him. This was the highest of top shelf whiskeys, after all. It shouldn’t have been a wonder.

“Well?” John asks once his head is back on straight.

“You’re not serious,” Jon says, smirking.

“What, not even a kiss on my big night?”

“Not exactly the most persuasive proposal I’ve gotten from you, John. And I _know_ what your good ones sound like.”

Jon’s still treating this like it was a game, but it wasn’t feeling that way to John anymore. The more he looked at Jon’s relax posed and listened to his compliments and felt his generous touches, it seemed like the only thing left to do—the only _right_ thing left to do—was to kiss him. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t thought of doing this before. Since he was a schoolboy, he had gobbled up bits of praise and affection like they were candies. And Jon was very free with his sweets. Always checking in, congratulating, assisting where it was needed, and handing out kind touches. There was no feeling quite like Jon Stewart patting your shoulder while you were sitting at your desk working your ass off and hearing him say, “That looks great! Keep up the good work!” And maybe he had gotten stiff in the office once or twice…

Tonight was no different. Not really. John had received the highest compliment a TV talk show host could get, and then Jon appeared out of nowhere, and John realized there _was_ a higher compliment.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” John says.

And before Jon can dodge or make a joke, he’s clasped Jon’s face between his hands and kissed him soundly before he could lose his nerve. The cherry on top is hearing the smallest whimper when he finally pulled away.

“Shit, that was hot,” John rasps, pulling away.

“Now _that_ ,” Jon says, still close, close enough to touch. “ _That_ was a damn good pitch, Oliver. You’ve been holding out on me.”

“Do you know what? I’ve just satisfied a ten year curiosity.”

“What’s the verdict?” Jon asks with a lopsided grin.

John’s eyes dart back to Jon’s lips.

“I definitely should’ve tried that sooner.”


End file.
